


The Stranger in New York

by socialiststeverogers



Series: L'imprévu (The Unforseen) [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Established Relationship, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, briefly, really just too fluffy no content whatsoever, some very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8695888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/socialiststeverogers/pseuds/socialiststeverogers
Summary: Grantaire, Enjolras, Greenwich Village. An unbelievably fluffy slice-of-life coda to my longer 1950s AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title's stolen from a series of events somebody, can't remember who, organized to celebrate the 70th anniversary of Albert Camus visiting New York in 1946. Sorry I took your super serious intellectual thing and turned it into fanfiction! Such is the way of life.

“I am learning there are cities, like certain women, who annoy you, overwhelm you, and lay bare your soul, and whose scorching contact, scandalous and delightful at the same time, clings to every pore of your body...perhaps this is what people call passion.” -- Camus, “The Rains of New York,” 1948.

 

Little Richard wailed on the corner record player, loud and wild, and Grantaire loved it even though he couldn’t understand a damn word. Or maybe he loved it because he didn’t understand it. Enjolras, who spoke better English, had once offered to try and translate a few of the lyrics, but Grantaire had told him to leave him in ignorance. Why spoil something so electrically nonsensical by tying it down with definitions? Enjolras had wrinkled his nose, but Grantaire had just laughed and kissed the wrinkles away and refused to learn.

On this particular night, the babbling, brilliant intensity of the music wove together with the sounds of Jehan’s clear voice as Grantaire’s freshly-acquired friend recited lines of poetry, newborn, to the faces scattered around his living room. Half a dozen figures, all friends of Courfeyrac, and therefore friends of Enjolras, and therefore friends of Grantaire, were crowded into the tiny space along with a colorful mishmash of furniture and decoration that seemed to make sense to no one but Jehan, and possibly his equally eccentric partner. Posters from a dozen films Grantaire had never heard of papered the walls. Books in French, English, Russian, Italian, and several languages Grantaire didn’t recognize were piled haphazardly beside open bottles of wine and lit candles. The sounds of the city wafted in on a cool breeze through the opened window, papered with pamphlets and colored crepe like bohemian stained glass. Courfeyrac himself, in a short-sleeved salmon shirt and persistently unpressed pants, slouched against the windowsill, watching Jehan with a proprietary smile on his face, occasionally catching Grantaire’s eye and winking at him in the solidarity of the hopelessly lost. 

Waves of sound rolled over Grantaire, carrying him away as easily as any drug. He found himself fascinated by the play of light on Jehan’s sweater which, going against the seemingly universal dress code of Manhattan’s avant-garde, was not a black turtleneck but rather an astonishing patchwork monstrosity of a thousand colors and textures. Joseph among the Beats, interpreting dreams into verses. Grantaire wished the country priest who had directed his village’s annual pantomime could see him now, sprawled on a battered couch in a filthy foreign city, the air heavy with the smell of reefer and life, arm draped possessively around a beautiful man. The shock would kill him.

Grantaire watched the fine lines of Enjolras’ face shift and settle into a thousand individual expressions as he chatted with Joly, sweater-clad shoulder nestled under Grantaire’s arm. In the warm easiness of their friends’ apartment, Enjolras, who in the cold isolation of rural France had seemed like a distant hero carved out of tense marble, melted into a soft humanity no less perfect than before. He laughed at Joly’s jokes, let his hair get rumpled, let his drink occasionally splash onto his sweater. It was dazzlingly kaleidoscopic, how each iteration of Enjolras was arrestingly beautiful. 

As if he could feel the weight of Grantaire’s gaze on him, Enjolras turned away from Joly and met Grantaire’s eyes. “You look like you’re in a trance,” he said.

“Maybe so,” Grantaire answered, lazily. “Maybe I’ve transcended. Maybe Courfeyrac’s terrible apartment will go down in history as the site of my enlightenment.”

“Calling it Courf’s apartment makes it sound like you attach value to the bourgeois concept of private ownership,” said Enjolras, shifting himself so that his thigh pressed against Grantaire’s in one long, distracting line of heat.

“Someone’s name is on the lease,” said Grantaire, leaning in almost automatically, instinctively, to capture Enjolras’ mouth in a kiss.

When Enjolras pulled away, his eyes were soft. “Come on, we’re going for a walk.” He untangled himself from Grantaire and stood, swaying a little as he tried to get his balance. Musichetta, who had been perching on the arm of the old sofa beside Joly, slid into the vacated seat and nudged Grantaire. Company on this particular couch was no longer encouraged.

Grantaire allowed himself to be pulled up, using his unsteadiness as an excuse to wrap his arm around Enjolras’ waist. “Where are we going?” he asked, trying very hard to resist pressing his nose into the nape of Enjolras’ neck.

“Out,” said Enjolras. “For a walk.” He started wrapping his scarf around his neck, a new red one that Cosette had given him before they had left France.

“You and your walks,” Grantaire huffed, not unkindly, as they picked their way over people to the door. “I’m beginning to think you’re not going to stop until you’ve dragged me down every street in Manhattan.” 

Enjolras made a face as if seriously considering Grantaire’s suggestion, and Grantaire groaned. “I’m kidding,” said Enjolras. “I would never do that.” He buttoned his jacket. “I’m going to drag you down every street in Brooklyn, too.” He ducked to avoid Grantaire’s swat to the back of his head, laughing.

 

\---

 

It was a chilly day in early October, cool enough for Enjolras’ wool jacket, but not so cold Grantaire froze in his battered leather one. As they stepped out onto the street, they were met by a thick cloud of steam rising from a grate, mixing with the smell of cooking from a tiny hole-in-the-wall across the way, and the heavy grey puffs of exhaust from the cars cruising down the narrow streets of Greenwich Village. Above them, just out of sight, Grantaire could hear the rattle of the elevated train as it wound its way down to the end of the line. It could not have been possible to imagine a place more different from Fond de l’Etang. 

Enjolras set out resolutely down the street, and if Grantaire hadn’t known that he had absolutely no idea where he was going, he could have sworn Enjolras was a man on a mission. Grantaire had to take two steps to every one of Enjolras’, but he was more than happy to hustle a little if it meant he got to walk beside him.

For a little while they walked in silence, letting the sounds of the city wash over them. Grantaire wished he could reach out and hold Enjolras’ hand, but he remembered too clearly Courfeyrac’s warning, after they had arrived in the city a month ago-- here, some things were still illegal. 

“I got a letter from Combeferre yesterday,” said Enjolras eventually. His gaze was fixed off to the side, looking through the lattice of buildings to the sliver of grey sky where the city ended. 

“I knew something was on your mind,” said Grantaire. “How is he?”

Enjolras sighed, not unhappily. “He’s doing well. Very well, in fact. He’s met up with-- some like-minded people, you know, and things are progressing. They’ve settled in, he won’t tell me where-- can’t, he says.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Very cloak-and-dagger.”

Enjolras had a look on his face that Grantaire always thought of as the Boy’s Own Adventure Look: chin heroically tilted, mouth set, eyes fixed on some noble goal far off in the distance. Beautiful, but very, very naive. “Some things have to be, for the good of all.”

“I know,” said Grantaire. He did know. He knew better than Enjolras did, and for a minute that knowledge sucked him away from the bustle of the city, from the easy day and from Enjolras, back to cold and hunger and silence and fear. Cloaks and daggers, no-- threadbare coats someone had died in and a machine gun someone else had pressed into his hands, a bread knife that he could never again bring himself to use for food. Bullets whistling. Loneliness.

A pressure on his shoulder brought him back down to earth. Enjolras ran his hand up to the nape of Grantaire’s neck, stopping just short of bare skin. The warmth in his very blue eyes brought the heat flooding back into Grantaire’s too-stiff bones. For a moment they stood on the sidewalk, just looking at each other. Then, Grantaire smiled, dropped his eyes, and they set off on their way again, ambling down the street. Enjolras left his warm hand on Grantaire’s shoulder just a second longer than a friend might have.

As they walked down the street, Grantaire found himself beginning to whistle. It was a tune he didn’t often bring back into his mind, but somehow, here, in the street of a foreign city with a man who never failed to pull him back from whatever brink he came to, it seemed alright. After a moment, and much to Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras joined in in a pleasant baritone. “Ohé, partisans, ouvriers et paysans, c’est l’alarme. Ce soir l’ennemi connaîtra le prix du sang et des larmes…”

“Of course you know that one,” said Grantaire, after they reached the end of the verse.

Enjolras looked away. “I know it probably means more to you than it does to me.”

“Stop it,” said Grantaire. “You know I hate it when you treat me like some martyr. It’s just a song.” Enjolras said nothing. Grantaire rolled his eyes. “My feet are sore from all your walking. Come on, let’s duck in here.” 

Grantaire pulled Enjolras by the edge of his sleeve down a small flight of steps towards the door to a small cafe. Just before they reached the door, Enjolras paused to push Grantaire briefly up against the wall where no one inside the cafe or on the street could see them, and brushed his lips against Grantaire’s in a quick kiss. Grantaire felt himself melt alarmingly fast, all the irritation and cold and soreness and the too-heavy weight of the past slipping off his shoulders like rainwater off a roof. God, but he was far gone for this man. 

Before he could stop to think about just how completely lost he was, Enjolras pulled away, smiled at him a little sadly, and pushed through the door into the cafe.

They sat at a table in the corner, far in the back where no one could see them if they weren’t trying to be seen. Enjolras ordered tea. Grantaire opened his mouth to ask for whatever their cheapest wine was, but when the waiter looked at him expectantly, he found himself asking for water. When the waiter stepped away, Grantaire saw that Enjolras was looking at him with a strange expression. “What?” he asked, suddenly nervous.

“Nothing,” said Enjolras.

“Not nothing,” Grantaire responded. “You were looking at me like-- like something was wrong.”

“No!” said Enjolras, quickly, his eyes widening innocently. Grantaire’s stomach was starting to twist, and he wished he’d ordered that wine after all. “Nothing’s wrong. Just…”

“Enjolras, if you have something to tell me, say it.” Grantaire’s own voice felt like it was coming from very far away. Enjolras opened his mouth, closed it again, and said nothing. “You’re killing me, Enjolras, Christ, can’t you--”

“Am I holding you back?” 

It was a minute before Enjolras’ words made their way through Grantaire’s brain. “What?” Across the table, Enjolras’ face was stiff and serious, his mouth set like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. “What are you talking about?”

Enjolras, for once, looked deeply uncomfortable and refused to meet Grantaire’s eye. “I just thought, you know, you’re doing so much better here-- you’re an artist, everybody loves what you do, you seem so happy and you’re not drinking, and I wondered, I mean, it can’t be easy for you to have a stick-in-the-mud-- I mean, I’m no artist, you should be with someone who knows what you’re, you know, doing with all this stuff and I can’t keep up, I just hang off of you most of the time and you don’t need--”  
It dawned on Grantaire that Enjolras was not kidding, and that if Grantaire didn’t jump in, he might never stop babbling. “Are you serious?”

Enjolras looked up, mid-sentence, his face turning red. “Yes! Of course, this is very serious and I--” 

Grantaire glanced around, saw that no one was looking their way, and leaned across the table to kiss Enjolras quickly and firmly. When he pulled away, Enjolras looked flustered, but he wasn’t trying to talk anymore. They looked at each other for a moment. “I love you,” said Grantaire, finally. 

“Oh,” said Enjolras. 

“I’ve been waking up happy in the morning,” Grantaire continued, before Enjolras could say anything else. “It’s better here, and I’m doing better, but not because of that, Enjolras, not because of where we are. I don’t really feel the need to drink anymore-- not like I used to anyway, and I think even food tastes better than it used to. It’s exciting here and everyone seems to like my art and I like your friends, but none of that is why I’m happy. It’s not the city, Enjolras, it’s you. I would have followed you anywhere and been happy.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras.

“I’m sorry if that’s too much.”

“I love you,” said Enjolras.

“Oh,” said Grantaire. He took a breath to say more, but found there was nothing in his head to say. Instead of words, his mouth started to stretch into a smile just as Enjolras broke off into what could only be described as giggles. He stopped after a second, but not before Grantaire had begun to laugh as well, from relief, and from sheer joy. 

Enjolras made a move as if to grab Grantaire’s hand across the table, but thought better of it. “Come on,” he said, starting to stand. “We’re going back to the apartment.”

“But we just--” Grantaire’s gripe was cut off by a very different kind of fierce blue stare than the one which had made him so nervous a minute ago. This time Grantaire’s only concern was being hauled in by the vice squad for having a look like that aimed at him. “Well, if you insist,” he said, grinning.

As they headed towards the door, they encountered the waiter, carrying two teas. “Don’t you want your drinks?” he asked, indignantly, as they pushed past him.

“Some other time! Sorry!” Grantaire called over his shoulder. 

As they stepped back out into the world, Grantaire was almost blinded by a ray of sunlight piercing through the red-brick curtain of the city. He stumbled on the first step, pitching backwards-- but as always, Enjolras was there to catch him before he fell.

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn't intend to write another piece to Au Coeur de la Nuit, so I'm not sure how I managed to produce 2500 words of pretentious, plotless fluff. I mentioned briefly in that fic that Grantaire was reading existentialist stuff and I guess from that point on I just kind of...imagined him as Camus? But like happier and more outwardly artistic. More fun to be around. 
> 
> The song that Grantaire sings at one point is the Chant des Partisans, which is worth a listen as a historical artifact if not just because it's a cool-sounding song and it makes me want to go out and sabotage some fascists.
> 
> Liked it? Hated it? Want more or less? Comment or tell me on tumblr @jennetjourdemaynes.


End file.
